This Case Is Child's Play
by Madam Mimm
Summary: A series of grisly murders, within the same state, within the same month, all attributed to young children, whose stories all revolve around a three foot tall ginger doll... is it bad joo-joo, or bad voo-doo? Sam and Dean resolve to find out.
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold, wet evening, the nights drawing in so that it was already dark at a little after 4pm. Justin Cierra, on his way home from work, flipped open his phone, watching the rain splat against his windshield.

"Yup?"

"Justin, sweetie, it's mom."

Like he couldn't tell that from Call ID.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to be late to Suzie's party."

"Sure, Mom, when is it?"

"Five o'clock."

"Yeah, but when?"

There was an icy silence, followed by a slow, deliberate intake of breath. "This evening, Justin."

"Oh."

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"No, Mom, how can you say that?" Justin lied, as he spun the car around, u-turning in the deserted road, heading back towards a K-Mart he'd passed a few blocks back.

"She's your sister, for Christ's sake. All I ask is that we come together as a family for these special occasions, and what do I get?"

"Alright, Mom! I'll be there!"

"Good. Love you, sweetie."

The line went silent. Irritated, Justin hung up the phone and slipped it back in his jacket pocket. Freaking family... Suzie wasn't even his real sister. She was a half sister, and twelve years younger than him. They'd never gotten on. He hadn't gotten on with any of the new family his mother had built up, but he continued to pretend he did, for her.

The K-Mart was shut, and would be open again in a half hour, but the Goodwill next to it was still open, so he ran in to grab something that he could fob off as a present. There were rows of clothes and accessories, but he didn't know what she wore, or what size she was, so he headed to the toys. What would an eight year old girl want for her birthday? He looked at the poorly maintained doll's houses, and the jigsaws with pieces missing, and/or replaced by other, entirely different pieces... tempting as it would be to give her Frankenstein's jigsaw, he doubted Suzie or his mother would be happy.

"Excuse me?" The prim old woman at the counter called back to him. "We're about to close soon."

"Alright, alright." Justin sighed and grabbed the first thing he saw. It was a rather ugly three foot tall doll, with a mess of ginger hair. It wasn't even ugly in a specific way; it just looked a bit... creepy. It was still in the box, staring out through the plastic window, surrounded by red and yellow card. It looked seriously dated, but... he could say it was retro. Whatever. He paid five dollars for it, threw it into the car, and drove to his mother's house. All the time, he was trying to figure out why the doll was so familiar, but never bothering to actually examine it. He turned up, hugged his mother, said "happy birthday" and dropped the doll in front of Suzie, before swiftly forgetting all about it and getting into an argument with his step-dad ten minutes later. Suzie, who hadn't wanted her half-brother to turn up and ruin the mood anyway, took her doll upstairs, to be with the rest of her presents.

She slid him out of the box cautiously, red and white sneakers first, so that the box went up over his blue overalls, and past his smiling head. She read the legend on the box.

"Good Guy, huh? I never heard of you before."

"Hi-De-Ho, ha, ha, ha!" The doll's face moved with a slight mechanical grinding sound, as he turned his head towards her. Suzie gasped. She'd never had a talking doll before. She wondered what else it would say.

Flipping over the box, Suzie started to read the instructions, which was when the row escalated again, Justin yelling at Mom about her Dad, her Dad yelling at Mom about Justin, Mom yelling at both of them to shut the hell up because they were ruining a special occasion. Just like they had last year, and the year before, and as long as she could remember, at Christmas, birthdays, the Super-bowl, and just about any other time they were all in a room together. Suzie got up and shut her bedroom door, before picking up her new doll.

"They do this all the time. I really hate them sometimes. Especially Justin. He ruins everything."

"Hi, I'm Chucky, and I'm your friend to the end." The doll replied cheerily, blinking it's blue eyes at her. She smiled, picking him up and sitting on her bed, turning on her audio book CD and sniffing slightly as the door slammed.

"That's Dad storming out." Suzie explained, looking at the doll as she crawled under the covers. The door slammed again as she rested her head on the pillow. "And that's Mom going after him." She sniffed again, curling up under the covers as the TV blared on downstairs. "I wish Justin would stop causing problems." She muttered, looking at the doll.

"Hi, I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

She smiled, putting the doll on the floor as she curled up and decided to sleep, until ten when everyone would come back, be apologetic, and give her a big slice of cake, just like every year.

The next morning, across state, Sam slammed down some printed out news articles on the Formica-topped table where Dean was eating waffles and bacon, eyes wide.

"You're gonna need a strong stomach for this one."


	2. Chapter 2

"So..." Dean grumbled through a mouthful of syrup-coated waffles, after Sam had explained his print outs. "Seven separate houses, seven separate murders."

"Yeah, except the suspected murderers, in each case, are all between the ages of six and nine."

Dean paused, considering this.

"That ain't right."

"Tell me about it." Sam looked through the print outs once more, dating from that morning, to five weeks previously. "Last night, Corrine and Jay Fisher come home to find their son Jason murdered, hanging half way out the front door, face smashed in and strangled to death with what appeared to be a plastic birthday banner. They then found their daughter sitting on the stairs, watching the body, traumatised." He flipped to the next sheet of paper.

"Last Sunday, a guy named Bob Garner came home to find his wife with her throat slit, and his son asleep in the next room... with the bloodied knife in his hands."

"Ouch." Dean looked at Sam incredulously, returning his fork full of waffles to his plate.

"Oh, that's not the worst one." Sam flicked through another couple of sheets, looking for the story that had originally caught his eye. "Ah... the Thursday before last, Jenny Greene came home to find her husband with his Achilles tendon severed, his face bruised and cut, lying on the kitchen floor..."

Dean eyed the plate again, wondering if he'd be allowed to finish a meal today. He went to take another bite, but Sam wasn't finished.

"Turns out he'd been strangled to death with the sash from a child's dressing gown... which was later used to clean the blood from the knife that severed his tendon... which were both later found in possession of their nine year old daughter."

"That's not... so bad..."

"Judging by the bloody trail that led from the living room to the kitchen, he'd tried to struggle away after the tendon was severed. There was a big clump of muscle hanging out of his leg, and Police reckon he'd been pulled backwards by the exposed flesh."

Dean pushed the plate across the table. Clearly, the answer was no, he would not be eating a full meal today.

"Nine years old? They really think a nine year old girl could do that?"

"Well... no neighbours report seeing anyone leave or enter the building before or after the murder... they all report having heard a disturbance within the house, which they say sounded like the parents arguing with the children..."

"So the kids are the only suspects?"

"Yup. You think it's worth a look?"

Dean stood up, leaving his money on the table, and staring at Sam.

"In one month, maybe one kid could kill a guy. But seven kids in five weeks? All separate cases? There's gotta be something there."

Within the hour, the gleaming black Chevvy pulled up in the chill sunshine, outside a house which, if it hadn't been for the heavy police presence and crime scene tape, would look quite idyllic. The blue and white clapboard newly painted, the grass a deep green, the white painted porch tarnished with sinister brown stains, where the body had been found.

"No shit." Muttered Dean, looking through the window, staring at the pathologists who busied themselves around the house. "Doesn't look like the sort of place that would raise a child to kill."

Through a process of trial and error, they managed to get the names of the kids involved. Last names were easy, they were on the mailboxes and magazines outside the house, and in the news reports. Once they'd found the last names, it was a case of going to the parents, telling them "the deceased" was a close friend, good student, or helpful kid, depending on what seemed more likely, and waiting for the parents to drop the first name. From there on, it was just a case of bullshitting their way into the hospital. And so, FBI agents "Hendrix" and "Darrell" ("what?" Dean whispered at Sam, shifting under his inquisitive glare. "I'm feeling a bit metal today...") headed into the hospital room of Eliza Greene, who was being treated for severe shock and being psychologically profiled, before she was due in court for sentencing. The young nurse looked up at Sam as he stepped through the doorway.

"I'd be careful. She's... volatile."

"Oh... um..."

"Don't worry, I'll stay here and come in if she needs restraining at any point."

With that, the nurse swung the door shut, leaving Sam and Dean in the cold, stark chamber.

"Well that's reassuring." Dean muttered, looking around. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the room... the walls were a cold, surgical white, the floors coated in grey-speckled lino, with a bed that had been stripped down to the mattress, and a window that had no curtains... it did have bars, though. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement among the pile of blankets that was heaped up in the corner of the room behind the door, instantly setting him on edge. A small, hoarse voice drifted out from the blankets, not doing anything to help the edginess.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

Sam and Dean exchanged quizzical, "is this kid creeping you the hell out too" looks, before Sam elected to speak first.

"We're like the Police, but for... special cases." Not technically a lie. He was still struggling with the whole just-got-his-soul-back issue, one of the various side-effects of which (apart from the night-terrors, waking nightmares, sudden bouts of extreme paranoia and unstable mood-swings) was an extreme discomfort caused by doing anything morally wrong. As such, as he sat in the young girl's hospital room, trying to look as unthreatening as possible, he found himself reasoning that calling themselves the "special circumstances police" was a euphemism, not a lie.

A pair of round, brown eyes peeked at them through the folds of the blankets.

"What do you want?"

"We want to talk to you." Dean said, following Sam's lead and sitting on the floor, cross-legged. "We think maybe the other police didn't really tell us your story, so we want to hear it from you."

Slowly, the blankets fell to the floor, revealing a skinny, dark-skinned girl, her muscles ropey, her hair long and lank, and her eyes fraught with fear; tired, but never allowing herself to sleep. The sterile white clothes she wore fitted badly, but made her skinny black arms all the skinnier. Slowly, in the manner of a small bird that had had stones thrown at it once too often, she shuffled an inch or two out of the corner, nervous fingers clutching the blanket.

"I didn't do it."

"Well, what happened? Why don't you come over here and tell us?" Dean smiled, but the girl just whimpered and shuffled back into her corner, shaking her head.

"Can't. If I stay here, he can't sneak up on me. If I stay here, I'll see him coming."

"Him? Eliza, who are you talking about?" Sam didn't want to scare or pressure the kid, since she looked so weak, but he was getting seriously freaked out. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be their normal case.

"The..." Eliza trailed off, her hoarse whisper barely audible.

"Eliza, we can't hear you." Dean tried to look reassuring and happy, but seeing her all wound up was tugging on every emotion he had. "Can you tell us, please? We want to help."

There was a long silence, where Eliza covered her face in the blanket and began to sway. They had almost given up, when eventually, she dropped the blanket once more and stared at them.

"Dolly did it."

"Dolly?"

"My doll. Daddy found me a doll at a garage sale. The lady said she'd never seen the doll before, but sold it to us anyway. And then, when he and Mommy argued that night, I told my doll that I wished Daddy wouldn't argue anymore." Her voice became heavy, and tears sprang to her eyes. It was all Dean could do not to run over, throw her over his shoulder, kick down the door and go buy her as many ice cream cones and puppies as she wanted. "I... I went to sleep, and I woke up in the middle of the night, because I heard crashing in the kitchen. Dolly was taking stuff. He told me that he was going to make sure Mommy and Daddy never argued again, and that I should go back to bed... and then he... he told me that if I ever told anyone his name..." She choked, unable to hold back the sobs any longer. Her big brown eyes snapped to Sam and Dean, and she began to scream, staring them both straight in the face. "Don't let him get me, please! Please! I didn't mean it! I didn't know what he was gonna do! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

The nurse rushed in, sleek blonde ponytail catching in the light, as she lifted the struggling Eliza onto the bed. She looked at Sam and Dean, and told them to leave, but they couldn't hear over Eliza's continued thrashing and screams.

"Mommy! I want my Mom! Daddy, come back, I didn't mean it, please! Please, please, come back, daddy, don't let him..."

The door swung shut on the nurse jabbing a syringe full of tranquilisers into Eliza's taught muscle, before she eventually fell silent. In the hallway, the brothers looked at each other in traumatised silence.

"A doll? That's..." Sam began, trying to break the web of tension that was still hanging over them, but Dean held up his hand, still trying to regain his composure.

"Later, Sammy." He was croaky, from shock maybe, but more likely from distress. Sam could see in his eyes that Dean had wanted to scream too. Seeing Eliza's pain had made him suffer just as much. After a moment, the nurse left the room quietly, and smiled apologetically.

"She's sleeping now. I doubt you'll be able to get much more out of her." She eyed Dean warily. "Maybe you'd like to sit in the staff room and have a glass of water before you go?"

"Got any bourbon?" Dean rasped, attempting grim humour as a means of recovery, but the nurse merely gave him a pitying look. He shook his head. "Water sounds good." They walked to the end of the corridor, where a pudgy, black-haired by, in a similar white tunic to Eliza, stood stock still. He looked up at them.

"You were talking to Eliza?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled at the kid, still nervy from Eliza's reaction. "Why?"

"Eric, sweetie, get back to your room." The nurse ushered the kid aside, but Dean placed a firm hand on her shoulder. Eric had the same haunted look as Eliza. He was tired, Dean could tell that much. Tired, but he wouldn't let himself sleep.

"She's telling the truth." Eric looked up at Dean with bloodshot blue eyes, which were teary as he spoke. "She won't tell you the doll's name. I can't tell you either. But it's true! You gotta stop him, mister, please!"

"Eric Burnell, get back to your room this instant." The nurse snapped, before the kid slowly backed away. Sam and Dean took their water in silence, smiled politely at the nurses that cooed but offered mainly empty platitudes. They seemed to be on autopilot, only coming to when they were sat in the Chevvy, blinking and confused. After a long pause, Dean ran a hand over his face, pressing his eyes in the hope that he'd at least wake up.

"Eric Burnell?" He asked, eventually. Sam flicked through his pieces of paper, and shook his head, sadly.

"Number four. Gladys Burnell comes home to find..." Sam gave Dean a wary look, not sure if he could take it. Dean nodded, grimly fascinated with these tales of horror. "She comes home to find her husband with his throat slit... her daughter strangled to death... and her mother stabbed five times in the back."

"Oh, Jesus." Dean muttered, resting his head in his hands, and his hands on the steering wheel. Sam licked his lips, quietly adding;

"Eric was found locked in the bathroom, catatonic."

They sat for a moment more in silence, before Dean forced the car into reverse, eyes steely and jaw set.

"We gotta clear those kids, Sam."


	3. Chapter 3

The astute reader will, of course, have noted already that this particular story claims some connection with the tales of the notorious, yet fictional serial killer, Charles Lee Ray, better known as "Chucky". The astute reader will also, of course, be familiar with the outside of normal activity that Sam and Dean Winchester tend to find themselves in, and so, logically, the astute reader should not be that surprised when the author directs them down a grimy, urine-soaked alley (only marginally more sleazy than the bar it's attached to), to find the three foot tall baby-faced doll hunched over a still bleeding corpse.

Chucky held his breath as he looted the dying man's wallet, before dropping it half-heartedly to the ground. He sighed, pocketing the meagre amount of bills, thinking it was a shame that he had to do this. He wasn't starving or anything; he could steal all the food he needed, but he found that money helped transport a lot, and he had to get places. Not that he minded killing people, but as soon as you start doing something because you have to, it tends to lose all the fun. He was just about to turn and leave the alleyway when he heard two men leaving the bar, just around the corner. He hung back, pressing himself against the wall, so he was obscured by shadow. The two men loomed past the end of the alley, absorbed in their conversation.

"Look, we can't just assume it's demonic, Dean." The taller of the two seemed irritated with his companion. Chucky was instantly intrigued, but remained in the shadows.

"You heard those kids, Sammy. You can't tell me you think that little girl was capable of homicide."

"Dean..."

"And what about the chubby one? With the retainer? He really looked dangerous, huh? We're lucky to have gotten out of there alive."

"Can the sarcasm." The tall one was snappy. Chucky grinned as he saw the tall one shove the smaller on the shoulder, causing them both to stop and continue arguing right in front of the alley. "I'm not saying they're responsible. I'm just saying that it seems kind of a roundabout way for a demon to kill some people, right? I mean, if it was a possession, why possess the doll?"

Chucky's eyebrows shot up, coupled with the word "shit" stretching through his mind. This wasn't good. The smaller man, who, in fairness, was still a good four times taller than Chucky, fell silent. The more talkative one picked up on it.

"You know I'm right, Dean. If it was a demon or a ghost, they'd just possess the kids."

"So what do you think it is?"

There was a pause. Chucky knew what it was. He also knew that he'd rather keep the element of surprise if he was going to deal with these pretty-boy schmucks.

"I don't know. Maybe we should call on Bobby, see if he's got any ideas."

"Fine." They seemed to be resolved, but after a moment, the smaller one tutted. "I still think it's a demon."

"Well, y'know what, why don't you go speak to Cas, and I'll drive the car over to Bobby's."

"Drive to Bobby's? We're in Iowa, Sam. That's got to be, what, four hours away?"

"I want to go to Bobby's."

"It'll be like, 1 in the morning before we get back." Dean laughed incredulously, but the taller one glowered . Chucky knew he wasn't really in a position to pass comment on the appearances of others, but when the giant's face was lit by streetlamps in such a moody expression, he looked kind of like an angry moose. Or maybe a caribou. Whatever the hell the difference was. The smaller one, Dean, apparently, opened his mouth. Maybe he was going to say just that, but he thought better of it.

"Fine. I'll tell Cas to meet us at the motel."

"Fine."

And they carried on walking. Chucky sucked air in through his teeth. He didn't have a lot of options here. Sticking to the shadows, he edged up behind them, staying far enough back that they wouldn't see him, but close enough that he could see them. Not hard, given the size of them both, but he was careful all the same. He saw them both get into a black Chevrolet and drive of. Goddamn it, he thought, they could at least make it difficult for him.

"Yo, Cobanna Motel." Earl was not the kind to care much about his motel. He knew he was the resting place for exhausted or drunk truckers, for people who wanted a shamefully dirty weekend, and had long since learned to live with it. Morals were admirable and all, but when it came to it, they wouldn't pay for cigarettes. He cleared his throat of a sizeable lump of phlegm, before continuing into the grotty orange phone. "Where we aim to please your every need. What can I do for you?"

A scratchy, coarse accent, as thick with New Jersey as his desk was with grime, came creeping down the phone line.

"Yeah, I was wondering if you could help me out. I'm on a road trip with a bunch of buddies and we lost the car that was leading. We're not sure which motel they chose... has there been a black Chevrolet Impala in your car park today?"

"Driven by two really tall guys?"

"Yeah, that's them. Did they take a room there?"

"Yeah, you want me to take a message?"

"No, thanks, I... just wanted to know they'd got there safe."  
"Well, I can..." Earl was cut off as the voice on the other end hung up the phone. He was intrigued by this behaviour, and wondered if he should hit star sixty-nine and say he needed to know who it was, but then he remembered... he didn't care.

Bobby had said he'd get back to them, but he was, for the moment, as clueless as they were. He'd thrown up a couple of possible ideas, but ultimately, it was a disheartening ride back to the motel. When they opened the door, midway through discussing whether or not the "ghost toymaker" theory held any credence, when they actually looked at the room. The walls, windows and doors were intact, which was nice, but that was about it. The beds were overturned, the kitchenette had shelves torn from hinges, and the curtains were barely attached to the wall.  
"Oh shit..."

"Yeah."

"It actually makes the place look better..."

"Dean." Sam glared at him. "Does this not seem kind of serious to you?"

"Well... it's weird, I'll give you that much." Dean began to edge into the room, kicking the scattered contents of the overturned bookcase out from underneath his feet. "What do you think they were after?"

"He was very small." A wide eyed Castiel appeared in the middle of the room, giving Sam and Dean the look a child might give a parent when they first showed it what a party popper does. "Very small, and very violent."


	4. Chapter 4

"Cas? Were you here when this happened?" Dean was more confused and irritated than anything. Being that every demon in existence was out to kill them, a demon would have waited around _to kill them. _But this was someone sneaking into their hotel room and messing with their shit. It was new, but it was weird, and he didn't like it.

"Yes." Castiel answered simply, righting a chair and sitting down. There was a pause while the brothers waited for him to expand on this point. After several confused looks made their way around the group, they realised he wasn't going to without a prompt.

"What." Sam stated, lacking the mental fortitude needed to deal with the socially stunted angel, "What happened, Cas?"

"I heard Dean's call to meet you here. I arrived here. I was attacked."

Sam ran a hand over his face and leant heavily against the kitchen counter. Dean grabbed a chair for himself and straddled it, facing Cas, his eyes intense. "Come on, details!"

"What details would you like?"

"When did you get here? How did he attack you?" Dean ran some ideas off the top of his head.

"Was it a "he"?" Sam joined in. "What did they look like?"

"I've told you that already." There was a hint of indignance in Cas' voice as he slipped back into traumatised puppy eyes. "He was small. And angry."

"Ok, let's try something different." Dean held his hand up. The angel was tricky to talk to at the best of times, but this seemed very much like shock. "I'm going to tell a story, and you just fill in the blanks, ok? Castiel arrived at the motel room at..."

"Approximately a quarter after eight this evening."

Good, Dean thought, exchanging relieved looks with Sam. They were getting somewhere. He continued.

"And when he got here, Castiel..."

"Sat in the far corner of the room, awaiting your arrival."

"Good." A little creepy, but now was not the time to explain how sitting perfectly still in the corner of a darkened room was odd. He'd get into that when they had a weekend or so to spare. "Looking around the room, he saw..."

"Everything seemed normal. It was somewhat poorly decorated, and there was some rather pungent clothing that needed to be cleaned, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary."

Scratch that, thought Dean, the next lesson would be on laundry, the one after that on hypocrisy, then he would get into the sitting-in-the-corner-of-a-dark-room thing.

"Now, Castiel sat in the corner, uninterrupted, for..."

"About an hour and fifty-two minutes."

"And then, he was attacked. The attacker looked..."

"Small. I could barely see him, but he sounded male, and adult, but was no taller than my knee."

"He attacked by..."

"He leapt onto my back and tried to strangle me using someone's belt."

"Who's belt?"

"Shut up, Sam. What happened when he tried to strangle you?"

"Well, out of shock, I may have lost control of my emotions, and sent him flying backwards where he crashed into the bookcase. I left quickly."

"Through the door, or...?"

"No, that would have taken too long."

"Right. But you didn't see the guy who attacked you properly."

"No. I've already stated that."

"Thanks, Cas." Dean leant back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "That's a big help."

Several blocks away, Chucky clutched his chest, eyes wide, breathing ragged. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, pulled a knife from his overalls and plunged it into the darkness. He reached forward to retrieve it, throwing aside the rat impaled on the end. Somewhat calmer now, he looked back the way he had came.

"What the fuck..." he muttered, under his breath, "in the name of all that is holy, what the fuck was that?"

"So you think these children are innocent?" Castiel had not moved, but had used his angel-fu to un-wreck the place a bit.

"Well, we know they're not guilty of pre-meditated murder." Sam said, opening his laptop and sitting on his bed. "Something's wrong, somewhere, but we don't know what."

"And odds are that whatever wrecked up this place is connected to it." Dean sighed, grabbing a beer from the mini-fridge.

"It might not be, Dean." Sam looked up at his brother, wary. "It could just be your average, run of the mill burglary."

"Oh yeah." Dean snapped back, easing the top off the bottle. "Your average, run of the mill, three foot tall burglar."

"Well what are we dealing with that's three foot tall, Dean?" Sam pulled up a couple of websites, scowling. "A hobbit? A gnome?" He raised his eyebrows at Dean, only half-joking. "Aliens?"

"There's got to be something we're missing..." Dean sighed, sinking back into his chair. Cas stared intently into space, before suddenly looking up.

"Red hair."

"What?"

"Red hair. I just remembered he had red hair."

"You sure?" Dean leant forward.

"Yes. I remember thinking to myself that he left red hair on my coat."

Dean wasn't sure how to respond to this statement... so he didn't. Instead he turned to Sam.

"That's gotta be something, right?"

"Oh yeah, Dean." Sam snorted, already losing interest and finding an online crossword instead. "Three foot tall and red hair. Hey, maybe it's Chucky!"

Dean flinched involuntarily, before scowling at Sam, a glare as dark and turbulent as a spy-plane going through a thunderstorm.  
"Yeah, or maybe it's that midget clown from the urban legends. The one that hides in your house and pretends to be a statue, and kills you while you sleep." He stood, skulking towards the bathroom. Sam had been well and truly shut up, but Dean was still unsettled. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Excuse me." Castiel held up a hand, but Dean was already locked in the bathroom. Cas turned to Sam. "What is `Chucky`?"

"You know, Chucky." Sam stared at the blank (lack of an) expression on the angel's face for a moment, before remembering who he was talking to. "Chucky was a killer in a series of 90s slasher films. He was supposed to be a criminal who used magic to put his soul into a doll. So he became a living doll and went around killing people."

"Sounds like a fairly unorganised film." Cas was again staring into space. Sam sighed.

"Well, I can't remember the details; it's been years since I saw it. You should watch them, if you want to know what happens."

"Why did Dean react so unfavourably towards the mention of this `Chucky` character?"

Sam laughed, lowering his voice to make sure he couldn't be heard by anyone in the next room. "Dean watched the first three movies when he was thirteen because he had a crush on a girl who was a huge horror movie fan. He's been terrified of Chucky ever since."

"Really?" Castiel puzzled this information for a moment, before standing. "And why did he threaten you with a children's entertainer who suffers dwarfism?"

Sam glared at his laptop, cheeks flushed.

"I don't like clowns." He mumbled, staring very intently at his laptop. After a while, he looked up and saw Castiel, who looked as though they were both very close to figuring out the key to string theory, before popping out of the room. Sam sat for a moment, wondering where or when the Angel would next turn up, before losing interest and searching for an online word jumble. It wasn't that he didn't care about the poor kids, but he felt he was looking at it much more rationally than his brother. Even if they could find the thing that actually committed these murders, how one earth would they provide any evidence that would stand up in a court of law? He sighed, clicking half-heartedly at the game that bobbed about on his screen. He was starting to wonder whether having emotions and a conscience was really worth it after all...


	5. Chapter 5

The hallway was long and crooked, brown paintings hanging on brown walls, with damp red stains bubbling up under the wallpaper. Dean was a lot closer to the floor than usual... he felt small. A rush of footsteps clattered behind him. He whipped around, but there was only darkness. Heart racing, he willed his legs to move, dragging themselves away from the darkness one doddering step at a time.

Dean could feel his breath coming short and sharp, and beads of sweat forming on his brow. Why was he so scared? The silence was split in two with a manic, twisted cackle. Dean turned again. The shadows were moving.

"uh..." He managed, willing his legs to move faster. Away from the darkness. Get away. He yelled, and ran, but the corridor was stretching on forever, the darkness eating up every floorboard, just a foot or so behind him. He turned back to see where he was going, which was when the grey, dripping vent covers blew out of the walls, shards of metal throwing themselves at him, two slicing through his legs. He fell to the floor with a thump, shuffling back in horror as he saw the darkness rise up and form a figure. Slowly, the figure walked towards him. Three foot tall, but towering over his near-immobilised self, loping towards him with head low, and deliberate, swinging arms and legs... light flashed on bloody red, electric blue and cool steel. The laugh echoed again and filled Dean with quaking terror. It was shrill and filled with sinister glee. He couldn't block it out, it kept going... Dean looked up at the figure who loomed over him, who had loomed over him before, the face of his nightmares... then, quite unexpectedly, the lights in the hallway flicked on and the figure was gone, as Dean was helped to his feet by a familiar man with flicky hair and a trench coat.

"Dean, could you please wake up and answer your phone, it's been going off for some time now."

Dean woke up, to see Castiel smile briefly at a job well done, before popping out of the room. Confused, and feeling as though several very important lines had been crossed (privacy and infringement, polite and impolite, conscious and dreaming), he reached down from the bed to find his jeans screwed up on the floor. Blearily rubbing his eyes, he flicked his phone open.

"Yeah?"

"Dean. Is your brother up?"

"Bobby, it's..." Dean looked around for a clock. There wasn't one. He improvised. "Early."

"It's seven thirty nine, Dean." Bobby sighed, before biting something crunchy. He continued with his mouth full. "Early bird catches the as yet unspecified murderous force."

Dean sighed and threw a pillow at Sam. After a pause, Sam let out a noise that was mostly vowel sounds, with a few exasperated consonants thrown in.

"He's up Bobby." Dean tapped a button and held the phone out, as Sam looked around, regaining his senses. "What have you got?"

"Well, you didn't give me much to go on... Small, angry, murderous, and red hair isn't what I'd put on a stats card."

Dean rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back onto his remaining pillow, leaving his arm extended.

"Right..."

"It doesn't quite fit anything; I've got to be honest. Goblin is a possibility, but they only seem to attack if it's for gain. Leprechauns are usually territorial..."

"I am pretty sure neither of those actually exist." Sam mumbled in the direction of the phone, catching up on the conversation.

"I know that, dumbass, but do you have any idea how vague a criteria you gave me?" Bobby's voice crackled down the phone as he took another bite of whatever it was he was eating. "Could be a cursed object, could be fairies, could be possession..."

"Could be witches!" Dean sprang up, eyes narrowed. "Or that wish-granting hoo-haa again. You remember, with the suicidal teddy bear?"

Sam winced. Yes, he was having trouble keeping his newly reacquired emotions in check. He didn't want to think about a teddy bear shooting itself in the head first thing in the morning. He'd end up bawling like a little girl, and that was if he was lucky. At least that would be considered an appropriate reaction.

"It could be just about anything, Dean." Bobby sighed, sounding very weary. "Hell, could even be a trickster."

"Sounds a bit violent for a trickster." Dean sunk back into his bed, renewed weariness taking hold.

"Maybe Gabriel's back?" Sam grinned, finding the idea twisted. "Maybe he's gone badass..."

Dean shot Sam a long, slightly worried look as Bobby lectured them on the benefits of detailed witness statements, when Cas returned to the room, eyeing the phone. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, but Cas turned to Sam.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Sam repeated, still half asleep.

"Yes. I watched the movies as you suggested. They were crude, crass and of some entertainment value. But ultimately, I believe the "Chucky" character was in fact my assailant."

There was silence. After a long pause, crunching sounds crackled down the phone.

As Sam leant out of the window of the Impala, staring around the abandoned car park, he debated whether or not the idea of tracking down and capturing "a thing that looked like Chucky" was the weirdest way he'd ever spent a Monday afternoon. On the one hand, to any normal person, it may not be the most unbelievable story he could tell. On the other hand, to him, all the demon-killing, ghost-hunting and angel-chasing was at least in the same circle of weird. This was something else entirely.

He looked over at Dean, who was gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, and seemed quite reluctant to actually leave the car.

"You alright?"

Dean nodded, but didn't say anything. Sam felt like a bit of a douche now, having teased Dean about his phobia earlier. He patted his brother awkwardly on the arm.

"Cas and Bobby are searching the south half of the town. We might not find anything."

Dean glared at his brother, before throwing open the car door.

"Don't patronise me. Let's just get this done with."

Sam smiled awkwardly, before getting out of the car and rounding to the trunk, grabbing two bags of various creature-catching equipment.

The day was... eventful, to say the least. Sam and Dean spent the afternoon searching through alleys and various clubs, shops, bars, and... just about anywhere, really. Dean jumped at any and every sudden noise or movement, and on separate occasions, nearly pulled a knife on two girl scouts, one drunk, three small rats and one inquisitive stray dog with floppy brown ears. Across town, Bobby and Castiel weren't having much more luck, and had mutually agreed it was best for all concerned if they separated and covered half of their side each. It wasn't that they argued, in fact, it was the complete opposite; they had decided they would be splitting up without a word, five seconds after the Winchesters had driven off, when Cas passed comment that it was interesting how Bobby's all night research session had thrown up nothing, but an off-hand comment had secured a lead. Bobby and Cas left the motel, before heading in separate directions.

Sam and Dean were the first back to the motel, Dean eager for Irish Coffee, and Sam eager to get Dean back in his comfort zone. Cas reappeared soon after, looking somewhat chastised, and confused as to why simply asking people if they had seen a three foot tall murderous doll anywhere around had gained him such negative responses. Sam and Dean were still trying to explain to Cas how people really preferred their privacy, and how a strange man in a trench coat asking about dolls and serial killers would be unnerving to them, when the door sprung open, and Bobby glared at them, his face cut and bruised, his breathing hurried.

"Well, if you idjits are done with your tea party, maybe you'd like to help me contain the little S.O.B."


	6. Chapter 6

Bobby led them out into the car-park, where the remnants of a cat-carrier were strewn a few feet from the Impala.

"I knocked him unconscious when I found him, but the little shit came to earlier than I'd thought." Bobby sighed, pulling a knife out of his belt. "Kicked the shit out of the case, and then ran off somewhere."

Dean, blanching, ran to the boot of the impala, and took out two metal poles they had "borrowed" from a dog catcher in Montana. He threw one to Sam, and turned, seeing Bobby give him a weary glare.

"Sure you don't want to take a couple of guns with you as well?"

"Hey, shut up, man, this could be dangerous." Dean snapped, eyes wide and darting. Castiel tilted his head, looking around the car park.

"Given his behaviour in the movies, it's likely he's still in the area, no doubt intending to strike Bobby down for interfering." There was a pause, as Castiel narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. "We should go find him."

"Oh, well done, Captain God-damned Obvious..." Bobby muttered, before walking away. "I'll take this side. Dean, you look over there. Sam, 'round the back of the motel. Cas... just... keep an eye out."

Cas nodded, somewhat superfluously as everyone else had already dispersed, but it was a nod of conviction all the same. Dean examined his allotted area of the car-park, checking under cars and shaking shrubs, admittedly not with as much gusto as Bobby was currently adopting, but he felt he had his reasons.

Sam felt the dog-catcher's lasso was not nearly enough to defend himself against... the thing he was looking for. He still wasn't convinced that Cas hadn't been wrong. They were looking for "a thing that looked like Chucky", that much he could handle. Any more than that pushed him close to break-down territory. He stooped through the trees and long-forgotten garden area around the back of the motel, eyes sharp, and heart beating irritatingly fast. Alright, so he didn't believe in the son of a bitch. Didn't mean he'd be stupid enough to let his guard down...

Ragged breathing escaped his lips as he struggled to calm himself. He was seeing red, and wanted to go crazy, there and then, but knew that was too risky. The one bastard he really wanted to kill didn't look like an easy target, and the three other guys who he had with him seemed just as burly. Slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, Chucky crept through the bushes bordering the edge of the car park, mirroring the older one's movements, but always keeping distance. He found he was backing towards the motel, and decided he was in such a position where, if he was going to get the bastard, he'd have to do it now. Slowly, he crouched, drawing a knife from the pocket of his overalls. He crept forward, eyes on the bearded one, waiting for him to come close enough. Closer... closer... Chucky's breathing became ragged again, as he felt the adrenaline surge in his blood. He shuffled slightly, readying to pounce, as the bearded one came nearer, jabbing at the hedge-row, stooping down to check underneath a nearby car...

With an almighty yell, Chucky threw himself forward at the startled figure, knife raised in mid-swing, eyes glinting demonically. But, suddenly, he found himself being propelled backwards, hands flailing, eyes wide, and yell catching in his throat. He croaked and grunted, thrashing and kicking as he felt himself being swung violently around.

"Holy shit..." Came a voice from behind him, sounding equal parts shocked and amazed.

From his seat on the floor, Bobby stared up, wide eyed, at the thrashing, flailing doll, still waving a knife around, growling and trying to scream through the dog-lasso that was gripping his throat. He looked past the doll, to Sam, who, now he had caught the mysterious creature, wasn't entirely sure what to do next. Castiel strode over to them, knocked the knife from the hands of the furious doll, and delivered his sleepy-time forehead tap between the wildly flailing limbs. The doll fell still, looking hideously macabre as he hung from the dog lasso, the gentle breeze tugging his mop of red, plastic hair.

Bobby stood, releasing a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He looked over the car park, to see Dean peeking over the roof of the Impala, eyes wide.

"Let's get this... thing inside." Bobby grumbled, walking back to the motel room. Cas looked at the doll once more, then at Sam, before turning to follow Bobby. Sam could have sworn he'd seen a flash of smug, "I-told-you-so" superiority on Cas' face as they made eye-contact, but couldn't register it before he was left alone in the car park, hanging a doll, by the neck, on the end of a metal pole. He tried to remember the exact point his life had gone from "unusual" to "completely fruit-loops mental", but gave up when he realised he could sit out here debating with himself all night, and eventually the psychotic lump of plastic would wake up and start looking for people to kill (an observation which really only added to the pressure of the original question).

It was several hours and one hastily constructed cage later that Chucky finally woke up, blinking a few times, before launching into a tirade of abuse at the four figures gathered around him, staring at him with expressions ranging from mild intrigue to abhorrent disgust. One of them pulled out a gun, poking the barrel through the bars of the cage, pointing straight at his face.

"What are you?"

"Pissed off." Chucky spat back, eyeing the gun but still defiant.

"What. Are. You." The man repeated, and Chucky now recognised him as the shameless red-neck that had knocked him unconscious and stuffed him in a cat case. Chucky glared at him, narrowing his eyes and putting his hand over the gun barrel, sneering.

"I'm Charles Lee Ray, you ignorant fuck. How many other killer dolls do you know?"

"Very funny." The man replied, not looking at all amused. "State your kind. Demon? Ghost? What?"

"Demon?" Chucky was outwardly incredulous, but inwardly considering the benefits of being referred to as a demon. It sounded cool, at least. He shook his head, pushing the gun barrel back through the bars, and leaning against them, looking up at their faces. "What's it to you, fuck-os?"

"Look." One of the younger men spoke, his long brown hair flopping forward as he sighed, irritably. "We know you can't be legit, so quit lying and we'll make it all quick and easy for you. Straight back to hell, no torture, honest."

Oh holy crap, Chucky thought, looking from one totally sincere face to the next. He had been caught by a crotchety redneck, two young men of questionable relations, given the way they kept exchanging glances, and a very intense accountant. And, to make matters worse, they all believed in demons. Religious mentalists. Great.

The Winchesters, meanwhile, were running out of patience.

"Shit, Bobby, he's not going to tell us anything." Dean growled, the presence of the doll making him uneasy. "If he won't tell us what he is, I say we just test him for everything."

Test? Chucky tensed. That didn't sound fun.

"You lay one fucking hand on me..." Chucky growled, reaching into his overalls, and grimacing as he realised there was nothing there.

"Looking for this?" The redneck, or Bobby, apparently, held the knife up, before putting it down beside him, out of Chucky's reach. "Salt him."

"Wha-AURGH!" Chucky yelled, as he got a fistful of salt and a gush of water straight into his eyes. He snarled, throwing himself against the bars of the cage, fury taking over. "Fucking bastards! I'm gonna kill you, you crazy ass weirdos!"

The men recoiled slightly, but were less shocked at the sudden violent outburst, and more irritated that the salt and holy water had both failed.

"Shit... so... not a demon then." Sam stated, unhelpfully. Bobby, seizing his moment, grabbed a silver knife from the floor beside him and sliced one of Chucky's knuckles as he shook the bars of the cage.

"Gah, shit..." Chucky exclaimed, instinctively withdrawing his hand. "What the fuck?" The wound bled, as it would if any human were sliced on the knuckle. Bobby glared, dropping the knife.

"Ain't a shape-shifter either. Anyone else got any bright ideas?"

The sun had set, but eventually they exhausted their arsenal of never-fail tests, and all of them... failed. By the end of it, the three men, the angel, and the doll were all irritable, and the phrase "I fucking told you already" had been repeated several times. Dean turned to Castiel, his unease at being with the doll still present, but now secondary to his eagerness to get it sorted.

"Any ideas?"

"Well, if he is what he says he is, I could examine his soul."

"Now, why didn't you suggest that when we started?" Bobby sighed, too exasperated to be really annoyed.

"No one asked." Castiel stated, without blinking, before standing and lifting the lid from Chucky's cage.

"Get the fuck away from me." Chucky spat, getting ready to kick, bite and strangle. "I don't know what you think you're going to do, but if you come anywhere near me, I'm gonna tear you apart."

Castiel, climbing into the pen and crouching down, gave Chucky an apologetic smile.

"I'd normally apologise for your imminent discomfort, but what with your excessive use of violence, blasphemy and profanity, I'm oddly inclined not to."

"What?"

Castiel rolled his sleeve up and, without warning, plunged his hand through the doll's chest. Chucky let out a horrified yell, inflected with groans of pain and loud curses. Castiel withdrew his arm, nodded, stepped out of the pen and replaced the lid, rolling his sleeve back down.

"Well?" Sam, Dean and Bobby spoke together, with different levels of annoyance. Castiel looked at them as though it were obvious, before continuing to fiddle with the button on his cuff.

"It's exactly as I told you in the first place." He shrugged. "And exactly as he stated at the beginning of this ordeal. He's a Good Guy doll, manufactured in Omaha, Nebraska, possessed with by soul of Charles Lee Ray, the Lakeshore strangler." With that, he disappeared from the room, leaving stony silence in his wake.

"Ok..." Chucky blinked, turning his eyes on the disbelieving men still sat in front of his cage. "Now you're content with who I am, can you please tell me who the fuck you are and what the fuck was that?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Shit..." Bobby sighed, running a hand over his head and scratching his beard. He stood, moving to the mini-fridge. "Well, that's something I've never seen before."

"Seriously." Chucky repeated, feeling shaken, violated and, of course, furious. "What the fuck was that?"

"Cas." Sam snapped, standing. "He's an angel; he can feel people's souls. Bobby, don't tell me you don't know how to deal with this thing?"

"Yeah." Dean leapt to his feet, joining Bobby in the mini-fridge raid. "You have to know something."

"Oh sure, let me just get out my book on dealing with fictional characters."

"Bobby..."

"What the fuck do you mean, Angel? Angels aren't real! Who the fuck are you guys, anyway?"

"Yes, they are, or you couldn't have gotten soul-raped." Sam rolled his eyes, not looking at Chucky as Bobby and Dean both sat down at the kitchen table. He was getting steadily more annoyed. "Look, just shut up. We're hunters."

"Hunters? Hunters of freakin' what?"

"Demons, ok? Ghosts, ghouls, monsters, whatever. Bobby..." Sam left the doll to flip out in his pen, and joined them at the table. "There's got to be some possibilities at least. We can't keep him here."

"Demons? You got to be fucking kidding me."

"Look, you foulmouthed little shit." Bobby threw a bottle cap at the pen, to get the doll's attention. "Freaky, unnatural creatures like you come out of hell and into this world, and we stop them. Simple. Now would you let us have a god-damned conversation?" He turned back to the Winchesters. "We know we can't handle him like we would a demon. And, since he was never really alive, we can't try burning his remains."

"This is fucked up!" Chucky shouted, slumping against the bars of his pen. "Only I could get out of one fucked up world and find myself in an even more ridiculous reality."

Bobby, pointedly ignoring the doll, turned to Sam. "How do they kill him in the movies?"

"You have to shoot him in the heart, I think."

Bobby reached into his holster and pointed the gun at the doll, pulling the trigger just as both Winchesters yelled out a "No!"

There was a brief explosion of blood, a howl, and then a flash of white light, and Chucky was, oddly, completely fine. All three men looked at him with varying levels of fear and confusion. Chucky shrugged, looking down at his chest.

"Hey, don't look at me... that usually works."

Bobby growled, holstering the gun again, glaring at Dean.

"Why'd you try to stop me?"

"If we kill him, then how are we going to clear those kids' names?"

"I don't see how you're going to clear their names as it is, Dean." Bobby snapped, taking a long draught from his beer. "What judge on earth would believe that the kids' stories about a living doll are true?"

"All of the ones involved in the case." Castiel appeared between the table and the pen, causing Chucky to jump backwards and yell, followed by a stream of cursing. Cas raised an eyebrow at him, before straightening his coat and turning back to Bobby, Sam and Dean. "I have organised a gathering of all the judges involved in the children's' sentencing. We simply need to transport the doll to the courthouse on the other side of the state at one o'clock, tomorrow afternoon."

"You want the judges to see that thing?" Bobby finished his beer, and decided he needed another.

"Once they see it, they will have to clear the children."

"Yeah, and once they see it, they'll want to know exactly what it is and how it's alive." Dean found himself suddenly furious that Castiel would organise this without any input from them. He was tired, hungry and, most of all, incredibly uncomfortable that the incarnation of his nightmares was in his motel room and no one seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of it. "Oh yes, talking doll. Hey Sam, is there a procedure for jailing one of these things?"

"It?" Chucky repeated, rattling the bars of the cage. "These things? I'm right fucking here, bozos. At least give me my proper gender!"

"You are barely human, and as such get no authority over this conversation." Castiel snapped, barely turning to look. "And unless you want me to put you to sleep again, I suggest you keep your filthy language to yourself." He fixed Dean with a firm glare, the few fractions of light and relaxation gone from his voice and expression. "If you want these children to be saved from a life of torment that, in my approximation, will almost definitely lead to an afterlife of worse, I suggest you trust my judgement and follow my advice."

There was an uncomfortably long stretch of eye contact, in which Dean and Castiel seemed to be having a very intense telepathic conversation about office supplies, while Bobby raised eyebrows at Sam, who was glaring so hard at the table that it should have caught on fire. Bobby was merely uncomfortable and bored of these "manly men have feelings too" moments, but Sam was struggling with several ridiculously exaggerated emotions, including (but not limited to) humour derived from seeing his brother get owned by an angel, discomfort at the intense eye contact, and an odd feeling of exasperation verging on hatred that he couldn't quite explain or place. Chucky, meanwhile, was sizing up this "angel", and looking for weak spots.

"You're planning something." Dean said, eventually, allowing everyone to go about their normal business once more. "You've got some heaven-sent mind tricks to use on the judges."

"Well done." Castiel said, before frowning, and, with great effort, configuring his facial features into an approximation of a smirk. "You're smart, when you bother to think."

Bobby buried his face in his hands and groaned. Sam was struggling against the instinct to recoil.

"Cas... was that supposed to be sarcasm?"

"I was intending wry humour." He looked at Sam, the slightest hint of sadness in his expression. "I think it needs more work."

"Can I just ask, is everyone in this reality totally fucking mental, or is it just a localised thing?"

Bobby stared at Chucky for a moment, before grabbing his various items of apparel and walking quickly to the door.

"He's right. And when the fictional, psychopathic doll is making sense, it's clearly time to go home." The door slammed behind Bobby, leaving Sam and Dean silently holding a hand up as a goodbye. Chucky cleared his throat.

"Hey, stretch?"

Sam blinked once or twice, before realising that he was the one being addressed.

"Yeah?"  
"You want to send one of those my way?"

Dean and Castiel were already deep in conversation about something Sam had the distinct impression he wouldn't know or care about, or be particularly welcome to contribute to, so he took a beer from the fridge, removed the top, and handed it through the bars. The innocent, baby-like looks of the doll conflicted with the practiced beer-chug face, causing Sam a fair amount of discomfort. Chucky sat down on the floor of his cage, and scowled.

"So what do you do for entertainment in a dump like this?"

"Shouldn't you be... you know, screaming, fighting, trying to kill us? Blood? Guts? Rargh?" Sam pulled what Dean would refer to as "bitch face 29", or the "I don't know what I had been expecting, but it wasn't this and it saddens me" face. Chucky went for a simpler, more timeless combination of a shrug and a wicked smile.

"Looks like I'm out-manoeuvred here. Three guys with guns and an angel? I'm good, but I'm not that good. Besides, I got to admit, I'm actually kind of intrigued." Chucky drank, before looking up at Sam. "Seriously, Stretch. You guys strangled me, knocked me unconscious, put me in a pen and violated my soul. The least you could do is turn on the TV."


	8. Chapter 8

The plan was simple enough. The Winchesters were to go on ahead, set up the space (and the cage) for Chucky's arrival. They would also prepare the judges for what they were about to see. This left Castiel the task of transporting Chucky from the motel room to the courthouse which, while not difficult for him, lead to the current, crushingly awkward scenario that Sam and Dean were only too happy to leave.

"Christ on a popsicle, did you see the look Cas was giving him?"

"Yes." Sam said, hands in pockets.

"I'm surprised he didn't explode... just from the intensity..."

"Yeah. Welcome to my world."

Sam strode off towards the impala, leaving Dean to puzzle over Sam's exact meaning. Chucky, meanwhile, was still inside.

Castiel sat in one of the dining chairs, watching the doll closely. Chucky, having been put to sleep again, was bound tightly on the floor, scowling back just intently.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that staring's rude?"

"... No. Should they have?"

Chucky snarled once more, wriggling around so that he had his back to Castiel.

"Stay where I can see you, please."

"My hands are tied to my ankles. What the hell am I gonna do that you need to stare at me so much?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Castiel stood, grabbing Chucky's ties and rolling him back over, before sitting down again. "That's why I'm watching you. You've certainly proved yourself very inventive in the past."

"You mean in the movies? Yeah, but there's not a lot of variety, is there?" Chucky sighed, resigned to being overpowered by the angel. "Chase, stab, hide. Chase, stab, hide. Shoot, shoot, stab, stab, die, get brought back to life in the next one. Man, I never realised how monotonous my life had gotten 'til I was made to watch it from an impartial perspective."

"So... you have seen those films?"

"Yeah."

"Then you can answer this... Please." Castiel shifted as Chucky glared at him, considering his question carefully. "You were never so violent in your movies. While you killed people, nothing came near the... torture you inflicted upon the victims I these news reports."

"Well the fuckers never fought as much in the movies." Chucky laughed, his twisted cackle almost making Castiel flinch. "I mean, they were characters, right? It was written on some script somewhere that they were gonna die, regardless of what I was doing to them. But... I guess real people fight more." Chucky fell silent for a moment, before frowning. "Now I got a question for you. That's not your real body, right?"

"Correct. This body is merely a vessel."

"Right. And... demons, they do that too?"

"Demons take their vessels by force. They do not ask permission."

"But they still possess a body that isn't theirs."

"I suppose."

"So, essentially, you and me have something in common?"

Cas narrowed his eyes, watching Chucky carefully.

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing." Chucky grinned, his baby face contorting unnaturally. "Just fucking with you." He laughed, a cackle that would have sent shivers down many a mortal's spine. Cas merely sighed.

"Why did you frame those children for the murders? Why not kill them, too?"

"Hey, they asked me to do it." Chucky shrugged, staring up at the ceiling, still smiling.

"They?"

"Every one of those kids said something like "I hate mommy" or "I wish daddy would go away"... so I, uh... helped them."

"You honestly believe that?"

"Alright, fine. They all pissed me off, so I killed them. And then... I dunno, I guess I just wanted to keep a low profile so I framed the kids."

"How can you speak about it so... calmly?" Castiel tilted his head, examining the little doll. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you weren't human. The only emotion I've seen you exhibit in your time here is anger. You have a sinful, wrathful mind, and your soul is... tainted."

"Hey! Don't judge me..."

"How can you be so calm about it?"

"You know what?" Chucky glared at him, eyes losing all the mirth they had just a second ago. "You're forgetting something, bub. I ain't real. You write a guy angry, and that's all he's ever gonna be."

"What do you..." Castiel flinched, raising his hand to his forehead. "We are being summoned."

"Oh fan-fucking-tastic." Chucky growled, as Cas stood and grabbed him by one of his ropes. "So how are we..."

Chucky, although being quite worldly and certainly having experienced more in his lifetime than any one person ever normally would, could not possibly describe what happened next. The closest he could manage would be to say that everything went very dark but also that there was blinding light, and it only lasted for a second, but also for what felt like years. Whatever it was, it was over as soon as it had started, and when Chucky regained his sight, he realised they must have been in the courtroom where he was supposed to be paraded in front of the judges.

"How the fuck..."

"Please stop using so much profanity." Cas replied simply, holding Chucky out in front of him. "Should I... would this be easier for you conscious or unconscious?"

"Conscious, the judges will believe us." Sam called from across the room, pulling on a white lab coat.

"Unconscious." Dean said instantly, glaring at Sam. "We don't want it trying to escape, or kill the judges or anything." Everyone gave Dean looks of varying incredulity, including Chucky. He sighed.

"Whatever. I'm gonna be humiliated either way, doesn't look like I have a choice."

Castiel frowned, before trying an apologetic smile as he put Chucky in the cage, removing some of his bonds, so that he could stand, but leaving his hands tied. He turned to Dean.

"Let the judges in."

With the help of a little angel-brand mind-magic, they managed to convince the judges that the killer was an escaped psychotic patient, who dressed up as a doll and convinced kids he was magical, before killing and robbing their parents. It was decided that the kids who suffered at the hands of Chucky would be given intense counselling, but proven innocent, and the killer himself would be given an extra fifty years and an extra few levels of security on his fictional sentence. They left the courthouse, all four of them bundled into the car, and drove away before anyone had a chance to fight off Cas' angel-fu.

"So that's the kids cleared." Dean felt somewhat relieved now, although he kept furtively checking that the sulking Chucky was still visible in the rear view mirror. "Now all we've got to do is figure out how to kill off Action Man back there."

"Oh you're real cocky now, huh?" Chucky sneered, clenching his fists and wincing as the rope resisted his movements. "Weren't so brave whimpering about me in the middle of the night, huh?"

"Hey, just... shut up." Dean attempted a growl, but could tell he was fast losing machismo points. Chucky burst into another deafening cackle, and Dean took his chance to pull over behind a billboard. They were a good few miles out from the city now. "Hey." He threw open the car door, grabbed a gun from the boot, threw open the back door near Chucky. "Let's see if we can shoot him yet." So saying, he grabbed Chucky by the bonds, dropping him on the ground before shooting him through the heart. There was, yet again, a splatter of blood and a flash of blinding light, and yet again, Chucky was left sitting on the floor, confused and angry.

"I really don't like you."

"Mutual." Dean nodded, grabbing Chucky's rope again and flinging him back into the car. "But that did make me feel better."

"Alright, Captain Jack." Sam raised his eyebrows from the passenger seat, as Dean walked around the front of the car. "Now you feel better, we need to interrogate the monkey and find out where he came from."

"You calling me a monkey?" Chucky hissed from the back seat, being forcibly restrained by Cas.

"I believe it's a... pop culture reference."

Dean sighed and began driving back to the motel, his shoulders already starting to tense again. By god, he hated that doll.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean could feel it again. The gnawing, hounding sense of dread as he stared down the dank and mouldy corridor, the one that clutched at his heart every time he was here. The shadows started chasing him again, the manic, cackling laughter echoing all around him, his hands clammy, his eyes wide, his heart racing...

Dean woke up with a start, and stared wide eyed at the diminutive figure who was sat behind makeshift bars, pinning a mouse by the tail with one hand, driving it crazy by stabbing at it with a kitchen knife. The grin on the doll's face was terrifying, a subtle sneer as his glinting eyes focused on the petrified rodent.

"Dean?" Sam looked up from this laptop. "You ok?"

"Yeah... no... Go over the plan?"

For the third time that day, Sam went over the plan once more, and waited to see what reaction Dean would have this time, and how it would contradict the other two. This entire case, he thought, might have started to drive his brother crazy.

"You want... that..." Dean growled, seriously unimpressed, "to stay here... until we can figure out what we're doing with it?"

"We don't have a whole lot of options, Dean." Sam sighed, shooting Chucky a wary glance. "We have a choice of either let him stay here and keep him out of trouble while Cas and Bobby find some leads, or we go and find the leads and take him with us." Sam leaned back, raising his eyebrows at Dean. "You really want to take him on the road with us?"

"I don't want to be anywhere near it!"

"Thanks, schmuck." Chucky yelled, without looking over at them. "I'm still a fucking guy, by the way."

He was ignored.

"Isn't there option number three where we let Cas keep an eye on it, and we go look for leads?"

"Your angel boy's kind of busy. War in heaven and that shit." Chucky let the mouse go (the mouse left the room in an instant, and never re-entered) before he glared up at Dean. "Christ, even I picked up on that. How fucking self-absorbed are you?"

"Hey, I..." Dean started, before catching eye contact with Chucky and instantly shrinking again. Sam let his head drop. This was beyond ridiculous. He had been through every website, every book, every possible piece of lore to figure out how and why Chucky was here, and how to kill him. He'd found nothing. He was fast reaching breaking point.

"Dean. Go cool off somewhere. I'll watch the toy."

"Yeah..." Dean pressed his fingers into his eyes, grabbed his coat and left, trying very hard not to look at the doll as it sneered at him. After he left, there was a moment's silence.

"How'd you know about the war in heaven?" Sam moved slightly closer to the doll, unashamedly intrigued.

"When you and bucko left for the courthouse, me and the angel got to talking." Chucky shrugged, using the tip of the knife to extract dirt from underneath his fingernails. "He told me some shit about angels and demons. It was interesting."

Sam nodded.

"You're into voodoo, right?"

"Apparently." Chucky sneered again, but more to himself this time. Sam had a feeling Chucky was hiding something.

"So, tell me." He shuffled his chair around so he was staring at the doll. "Why'd you kill all those kids' parents?"

"I don't know." Chucky shrugged, with unsettling nonchalance. "They got in the way. Plus, the kids were always saying shit like "I hate mommy arguing, I wish she wouldn't argue any more... Blah blah blah. So I did them a favour, and managed to get myself some loot in the process."

"But... why? And what did they get in the way of?"

Chucky stopped. He glared at Sam, his eyes shining with the deathly cold glint of icicles.

"The door. Why so many questions?"

"We want to help."  
"You want to kill me." Chucky grinned. "Well guess what, there's only one person on this Earth who knows how to stop me, and I'm gonna see to it that they don't talk."

"What do you mean?"

"Would you mind moving?" He rested his hands against the bars of the cage, his cruel grin not dropping for a moment. "You're in front of the door."

Dean had gotten to the end of the street before realising that he'd left his wallet on the kitchen counter. Muttering an oath and kicking over the nearest trash can, he turned and began to walk back.

"Dean, you're not with Sam and Chucky?"

"Jesus Christ, Cas, can you just... not do that?"

"Why?" Cas cocked his head to one side. "IO thought we'd established that we were all becoming more used to it?"

"I... just... fine, what do you want?" He began walking, and the angel fell into step next to him.

"Between the two of us, Bobby and I have amassed enough information to trace back the origins of the doll. The reports of murders of parents or carers blamed on children begin two days after a report that a group of teenagers underwent a suspected group suicide."

"Well, that would be nice and convenient, but there's no proof there's a connection."

"One of the members of the group was found still alive, and is in the psychiatric ward of a hospital in New Jersey."  
"And let me guess..."

"The child is convinced that a doll killed her friends, and will come back to finish her off."

"No proof that she'd know how to kill him." Castiel gave Dean a stern look. It was the only lead they had, and he wasn't about to let Dean explain it away because of his own fear of the doll. "Fine, let's go tell Sam..."

They had returned to the motel at this point, and found the door hanging open. Deans eyes grew wide as they entered, finding the cage thrown onto its' side, papers strewn everywhere, Sam's laptop spewing sparks from its' crushed case on the floor. Behind overturned chairs and other items of furniture, Dean could see the broken, unconscious form of Sam. He rushed to his brother, who was lying on the floor, his head against the counter, and had a knife through his hand, pinning him to the floor. Chucky, however, was gone.


End file.
